The Sparrow
There was, and there was not, a Sparrow flying across the vast stretch of the Kingdom, her wings stiff from cold altitude and exacting timetables. She flew not for migration or freedom, but to touch both sides of a life pulled apart by something she never chose.
The Raven met her by chance, near the edge of a northern outpost. A metal rail split the air like a spine. The Sparrow was perched on it, worn, graceful, tightly wound.
“You fly far,” Raven said gently.
“I fly required,” said the Sparrow. “Not far. Just again.”
Her feathers were tidy, movements efficient. She was the kind of bird the Kingdom once called indispensable.
“Your family lives west of the mountains,” Raven remembered aloud.
The Sparrow nodded. “A boy, small but fast. A home with roots, made of song. I moved there when the world shut down. I stayed. I worked. I gave the Kingdom my full mind from that distance.” Her eyes narrowed, dark with calculation. “But now the rules have changed. Again.”
Raven listened. She had heard stories like this before, creatures told their commitment would be enough, until presence was redefined as proof.
“I asked if I could stay,” the Sparrow continued. “They said they valued me. But the answer was still no.”
The wind shifted. A cloud passed between them like a thought not spoken.
“I am clever,” said the Sparrow, as if reminding herself. “I adjust. I booked flights. I travel east to meet the Kingdom’s need. I work on wings and wires. I sleep in borrowed beds. I make it look manageable.” A bitter smile flickered at the edge of her beak. “So they let me keep doing it.”
The Raven said nothing at first. Then, softly, “And do they see the cost?”
The Sparrow’s silence answered for her.
“I want to leave,” she admitted. “To be home. To be near what I love before it changes again. But the Kingdom grows so fast, it catches you in its wind. I keep thinking I can slow it. I can negotiate. But the current is always faster than it looks.”
They stood in stillness for a while, the rail humming beneath them like a taut string.
“You are not weak for wanting rest,” said the Raven. “You are not disloyal for wanting to stay where your body belongs.”
The Sparrow looked at her, eyes sharp, unsure whether to trust the kindness.
“You still fly,” she said finally. “Even after what you left.”
“I do,” the Raven said. “But not for them.”
The wind moved gently between them, no longer cold, just present. The Sparrow turned her gaze westward, toward the place she called home, still distant but not unreachable.
Neither of them spoke for a long while. They didn’t need to.
The rail beneath them hummed on, indifferent. But above it, two birds paused in stillness, no longer caught in motion, just there. Together.
And when they parted, it was not with answers,
but with a shared knowing that change would come, not all at once,
but soon.
© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.
